


The Side of Caution

by Engelikal



Series: The Fire That Burned The Archdemon [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: As Unspoken As It Gets With Zev, Gen, M/M, Not Quite UST, Secretly Pining Zevran, The UST Comes Later, Vague Spoilers, Zevran POV, Zevran's Last Mission, how do i tag this??, relationship building, unspoken attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 12:22:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10593936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Engelikal/pseuds/Engelikal
Summary: "How long did you follow us?"Eliysium Surana comes to an important conclusion about Zevran.Zevran, for his part, has trouble coming to the same conclusion.





	

No one is more surprised than Zevran himself when he finds a routine amongst the Grey Wardens.  

 

It is not an exciting one most days, certainly not compared to the life he once lived as a Crow, but it is a life and it is, tentatively, his own.

 

Zevran wakes before everyone else, every morning, listening to the merry band of misfits rise and begin their morning duties from the safety of his own tent.  He listens to the conversations start.  He listens to the bickering of Morrigan and Alistair, to the barking of the dog, the heavy footfalls of the Sten, to Leliana’s gentle humming.  He listens to their leader, Eliysium Surana, ask after his well being as Zevran leaves his tent with a grin, arms stretching towards the sky as he puts on a show of being satiated by a night sleeping on hard ground in the awful Ferelden cold.

 

After some fine Ferelden sludge (also, notably, cold), they pack up camp.  

 

His days are filled with walking.

 

Walking and learning the intricacies of his new companions.  Annoying them or teasing them or flirting with them.  Occasionally, they fight Darkspawn and bandits and bounty hunters.

 

His evenings are spent minding the camp, alternating being far **too** helpful so they will keep him around and smirkingly shirking his share of the work, cleverly bowing out of this task or that, testing his boundaries inch by inch to see where he falls.  To see where the illusion cracks and breaks, to find the place where the cruel nature of the world as he has come to know it starts to bleed out.

 

He hasn't found it yet.

 

They all eat and argue and jest and share in the joint victory of one more day alive around the campfire come night time, comrades in the way that children's stories describe them.  The kind that are thrown together by an indifferent world but find themselves united in it through a common cause.  Zevran was never overly fond of those stories, but he finds he can stand to live in one. (Even if it turns out to be, undoubtedly, false.)  

 

After everyone goes their separate ways, he settles himself down at the fire, polishing his weapons or seeing to his armor or just enjoying the warmth.

 

He does not admit to himself that, more and more, he is waiting for something.

 

Someone.

 

He starts his wait every morning, when he wakes before the others.  When he hears the gentle rustle of a tent next to his, the startling crackle of a magic-made fire, the gentle turning of old pages against the sound of sunrise.  Elysium Surana is silent as a shadow at dawn, but Zevran has trained himself to wake at the whisper of a single breath.  

 

Some mornings, he yearns to leave his stronghold of cloth walls, sticks, and rope.  To join the quiet dance of Surana’s morning ritual, if only to feel the warmth of fire against his skin.  Whether he wishes to be soothed or burned by it, he cannot say.  Either way, he never does.  He has no dignity, but he does have a modicum of self control.

 

By the time night rolls around, he often has neither.

 

Their fearsome leader speaks to each of them (or makes attempts at such), like clockwork, every nightfall.  A month ago Zevran would not have be permitted to be alone with the pretty Mage.  Tonight, as he approaches, no one so much as glances their way.  (It is less to do with any trust in him and more that they have all decided Eliysium will make good on his promise to strike him down if he tries anything.  Zevran has yet to kill any of them, and this has made them more amiable to The Warden’s decision to spare him.  The wounds from that argument are scabbing over and healing with time.)  

 

Surana takes a seat next to him by the fire.  He has no smile to offer, but his eyes are sincere.  The flames seem to grow warmer, more fervent in his presence.

 

Zevran does not shy away.  To the contrary, he draws ever closer.  

 

Lack of self control, as previously stated.

 

"What is your desire?"  Zevran asks, letting the worlds wrap salaciously around his tongue.

 

Eliysium is not the type of man he would have, previously, sought out for a conversation (for other activities, certainly) but he finds he now craves the candid, blunt contact.  The Warden Mage is difficult to parse, but he begins to think--more and more--that this the effect of his own unfamiliarity with honesty than it is anything else.

 

Mostly, they speak of Zevran’s life before this; Eliysium gives him a chance to brag or entertain with stories of previous missions, asks him a question or two about the Crows, about how they operate, about how Zevran got his start there and why he was so quick to jump at the chance to leave.  (Zevran edits these conversations heavily, sugar coating and softening scars.  He suspects the Warden understands with perfect clarity anyway, but Zevran is spared the sense of self pity.)  Sometimes, when he feels like it, they speak of Antiva.  Eliysium offers precious few scraps about his own life, but he is an attentive listener and a pleasure to look at--a fact Zevran brings up more and more.

 

Testing his boundaries. Cementing his place. Seeking something to do, seeking warmth.  Seeking, again, the fire.  To burn or to soothe, it does not matter.  He has never given philosophical thought to wanting sex before.  He has no plans to start now.

 

"I was hoping to hear more about your adventures.”  Eliysium answers him, tearing him from his thoughts.  (Life does have its few mercies.)

 

“Hmm...let me see...shall I describe to you the stages of lanthrax poisoning?  I saw a man go through all seven once…!”  Zevran replies, grinning.  In his head, he is searching for a tellable story among far too many untellable ones.

 

“A more recent one, actually.”  Eliysium states.  Then, without preamble, “How long did you follow us?"

 

Zevran's eyebrows shoot up.  He recovers in an instant, face turning lecherous as he scoots even closer to the other man.  He can breathe in the Warden’s scent from here, is surrounded by the smell of smoke and musk and old paper.  Eliysium gets prettier up close.  Zevran can admire every fall of his long lashes, every intricacy of his chocolate eyes, the dark beauty mark teasing his collarbone.  Zevran could kiss him at this distance.  He wonders what might happen if he did.  "Afraid I may have learned a dirty secret?"  He teases, moving still closer to test if Eliysium will back off.   

 

The Warden brushes off his glib remarks, as per usual.  He never rises to Zevran’s bait, no matter how hard the Antivan presses him.  Never offers any clues as to what Zevran’s boundaries should be.  "How long did you follow us?  Before you attacked?"

 

"What makes you think I followed you at all?"

 

Eliysium looks genuinely displeased for a moment, before it morphs into a look more akin to the Mage's personal brand of quiet amusement.  His eyebrows are raised higher than the low, brooding furrow Zevran so often sees, his eyes soft, lips idly threatening to quirk up at the corners; Zevran cannot help but thinking the expression is utterly attractive.  Certainly, it is more preferable than his usual countenance of switching between blank faced and surly.  "The contrast between this conversation and our first is striking.  I suppose if I wanted to skip the elusive attitude I should have asked this question while you were still at my mercy and bargaining for your life?"

 

"Tsk, tsk.  I am afraid so.  It seems we have reached the point in our relationship where you must begin torturing it out of me!"  Zevran lets loose a hearty laugh, ignoring the brittle way it crackles in the back of his throat.  "Now!  Where is that rope we picked up in the last town?"

 

"Being used for it's intended purpose: anchoring Alistar's tent, I am afraid.  It seems we shall have to skip the horrible, maiming torture for today."  Surana responds, voice tuned as if he is commenting on the weather.

 

Zevran cannot help but chuckle at the blandly presented sarcasm.  Such a long way they have come: from assassin and victim to prisoner and interrogator and now, exchanging humorous barbs alone by campfire.  He finds himself giving the Warden a look bordering dangerously on fond.  "A shame.  ...Though, the question still stands: why ever did it occur to you that I must have been stalking you in the shadows, hmm?" He had, of course.  It was the fact that the Warden had brought it up, after all this time, that had him questioning.

 

"Of course you followed us."  Surana counters.  "Were you under the impression that I believed you had struck blindly?  You _are_ more intelligent than that, Zevran."  He feels his throat constrict.  It is the first time in his memory anyone has ever called him _intelligent_ without a hint of mockery in their voice.  A difficult pill to swallow, when all evidence seems to the contrary.

 

“You set up a ruse.  You knew we would stop to help.  That even if we had cause to be wary we would still follow a select bait and step right into an ambush."  Eliysium’s earnest eyes keep him silent, pinned in place.  Recalling the way he had planned his failed assassination attempt brings a pain--a _guilt-_ -with it that he is not sure he is ready to bear again.  Stopping the Blight and annoying his new companions is, so often, a numbingly pleasant distraction.  

 

Surana must have taken his lack of comment as a confirmation, for he continues.  "You followed us long enough to ascertain that we have, at least, somewhat altruistic tendencies.  Enough to come to the conclusion that we would take the chance at offering assistance, should some stranger approach us screaming about their wagon being attacked.  ...You must have seen us doing some odd job in one of the towns,” he says as an aside. "But we did--we _do_ odd jobs in the towns all the time.  So that does not lend me many useful clues in pinpointing how long you might have been laying in wait."

 

Zevran gives wry smile, readjusting the angle at which his elbows rest on his bent knees. Settling in comfortably for the interrogation ahead.  “Your habit towards being easily sidetracked did not escape my notice, no.  As for how long I watched you?  Not long."  Long enough to appease his fellow assassins.  Spying and gathering information on his targets had been a mere pretense.  "I will admit that _foresight_ has never been one of my strong suits.  I watched as long as I deemed necessary to plan the attack. We have already discussed this, but Loghain did not have much to offer The Crows in terms of information when he put out the contract on you Grey Wardens.  He knew only that there were recruits that had survived Ostagar."

 

"You knew after following us that I was a Mage, though."  It is not a question.  The former Crow realizes too late that he is ambling towards a trap of Eliysium’s _own_ device.  To what end, he does not know.

 

The laugh before had grated his throat.  This one burns, a molten hand that has reached into him and pulled at his organs until they are tied into an uncomfortable knot.

  
"It was quite difficult not to note it," Zevran speaks lightly, teasing, "Pardon me for saying so, my dear Warden, but you are not the most…” he pauses, treading carefully, “subtle of creatures.   _Not that this is a bad thing._  And a man of your _skill_ and _beauty_?  He draws attention whether he wishes to or not.”

 

"...Was that your diplomatic way of telling me that you surmised I was Circle trained the moment you saw me?"

 

The Antivan taps his chin lightly, pretending to consider even as he allows a telling grin to spread across his face.  “Perhaps it is my diplomatic way of saying that you exhibit the streetwise prowess of a shut-away Orlesian housemaid who wears glass shoes and speaks to mice.”  In truth, the idea that a man such as Eliysium Surana might be an apostate had never once occurred to him, even back then.  The way he moved, spoke; the tense set of his shoulders as he walked through towns and markets had told the assassin all he needed to know about his target during his brief reconnaissance.  An apostate would have never survived so long without the ability to fake they belonged.

 

“Now, is there a point to this line of questioning, my dear Warden?  Or may we, perhaps, finally commence with a more enjoyable night time activity?  A handsome man such as yourself?  I could think of a few things…”

 

"You failed to capitalize on my weakness.”  Surana accuses.

 

Zevran’s jaw snaps shut mid-advance.

 

“You _could_ have taken us apart."  

 

 _You could have taken_ **_me_ ** _apart_ , is what he doesn't say.  

 

Zevran hears it just the same.

 

Aah.  

 

So this is the snare he has caught himself in.

 

Zevran is a professional.  His smile does not strain.  Rather, he drops it slowly, purposely, so as not to add offense to the somber mood the conversation brings over them. Over _him_ . The accusation in Surana's voice is an unspoken challenge--the question of _why didn't you_ \--churns together in his mind with the phantom images of a world where he succeeded, the dead bodies of his now-companions, the empty face of--

 

Of--

 

He returns to his senses, instincts honed by torturous Crow training snapping his consciousness back to reality all at once.  He was consumed by his thoughts for barely a moment, but a moment is far too long in a world where a single second of hesitation can cost you your life.  

 

Eliysium has that look of profound understanding that he does so well in his eyes.  It sets Zevran at ease in equal measure to the amount that it sets his stomach twisting about in a sickening fashion.  The way that Eliysium's fingers are fidgeting against the ground upon which they are sitting does not escape his notice.  Abruptly, the Mage’s hand moves as if to touch him.  Which would be a marvel of marvels because Surana seems loathe to touch anyone.  The only memories Zevran can conjure contain the barest traces of contact, a tingling trail of fingers written across his flesh on a sparse few occasions.  The skim of skin upon skin while wrapping Zevran’s bandages.  A brush of hands when he passes Zevran supper.  Whispered words and a featherlight caress that he is not sure whether he dreamt or not.

 

He braces for impact, the gentle touch he knows will be enough to shatter him…

 

Eliysium’s slender, pale fingers stop before they reach their destination.  He sets both of his hands resolutely at his sides.  

 

"You could have attacked us in a village.  In a marketplace.  Egad, a gorge with a couple more rocks in it might have been enough for me back then."  Untrue, but unimportant in light of the disarming stare Zevran has found himself caught up in.  "If you watched us...  You could have chosen a different place, altered your plan only slightly, and completely obliterated us.  

 

“So why didn't you?

 

“Did you stay away from more populated areas in order to avoid unnecessary casualties?  So as to not cause a scene?”

 

Surana fishes.  Does not find what he desires.  Segues into a full rant:

 

“You could have simply used poison, in fact.  We were hardly expecting trained assassins.  Even when you did attack, your troupe was all in plain sight.  You could have hidden behind boulders and picked us off one by one with arrows.  Instead, you _announced_ yourself.   _The Grey Wardens die here,_ " Surana quotes him, and the words hit like blows, but even still Zevran does not interrupt.

 

The Warden is searching his face for clues.  Answers to a myriad of spoken and unspoken questions.  Zevran is (un)surprisingly adept at keeping his face neutral.  They are locked in a stalemate.

 

Slowly, the tension drains from the air.  "You _could_ have killed us."  Eliysium reiterates for the thousandth time.  Or a number that may as well be.  "Why did you not?"

 

Zevran looks back at him.  More sincerely than he should allow himself to.  For once, his well of words has run dry.

 

The stillness stretches on between them.

 

_"You did not want to."_

 

Eliysium's words are quiet enough to blow away with the wind.

 

In the silence, they do.

 

Zevran has nothing to say, and Surana doesn't push.

 

. . .

 

Things change between the two of them.

 

Almost imperceptibly, but his ability to read minor changes in body language has kept him alive on many an occasion.  The Warden’s shoulders relax the slightest bit.  The serious downturn of his lips begins to look more relaxed when they speak to each other.  One day, Zevran swoops in behind him, fully armed, daggers out for the kill, and takes out a shadow cloaked Darkspawn at Eliysium’s back.

 

Said man does not so much as bat an eye.  

 

It is as if he has decided to himself that Zevran is _safe_.  And isn't that laughable.   

 

Zevran is not safe.

 

Not to anyone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the read! This didn't come out exactly how I wanted it but...Well, it was time to let this thing leave Editing Hell and fly free. I vaguely have more, specifically the stuff that goes before this, but who knows if it will ever see the light of day, tbh. Ahaaaa.
> 
> As always, comments and criticism will be very, very, very appreciated. uwu


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